


One of Those Nights

by incogneat_oh



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Humor, short fic, weird families bonding weirdly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 16:03:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10222100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogneat_oh/pseuds/incogneat_oh
Summary: It's been a long night, and the boys are back at the Cave.





	

–

Dick beats them back. Dismounts and drops his helmet to the Cave floor, the clatter muffled by the roar of an engine. He stretches out, mussing his own hair. Exhaustion in every line, every plane of his body.   
  
“I  _should_  be too tired to gloat,” Nightwing says, as the other bike grinds to a halt a few feet away. He adds, “Luckily, I’m not.”  
  
“Shut up,” Red Robin advises, while Jason yanks off the helmet, moans “My poor bike.”  
  
“You wouldn’t’ve been able to beat me anyway,” Dick says, like a consolation.   
  
“Not the time,” says Tim, yanking down his cowl and ruffling his sweat-slicked hair.  
  
“I’m lightening the mood with jokes,” Dick tells him, wounded. Rolling off his mask and popping his shoulders, half-sagged against his motorbike.   
  
“When,” Tim says, flat. Cold.  
  
And Jason says, “I’m inconsolable, fucker.”  
  
“Am I to understand, sirs,” comes a voice, and the darkness resolves into a tired-looking Alfred– “You are all uninjured?”  
  
“Bruises and scrapes, Alfie,” Dick tells him, smiling tiredly. “We’ve had worse.”  
  
“Is that supposed to be of comfort, Master Richard?” the butler says, with a little of the bite he mostly reserves for Bruce.   
  
And Dick levers himself off the bike guiltily, assures him, “We don’t need medical attention. Just hot showers and a few months sleep.”  
  
“Speaking of,” Tim says, frowning. “You didn’t have to wait up, Alfred.”  
  
Alfred smiles, wan, says, “You boys have been out and about for more than 30 hours. It seemed only fair.”  
  
Jason snorts, says, “That’s a pretty fu–” an elbow “A  _pretty fudged up_ version of fair,” and then a smile that’s almost shy– “Hi, Alfred.”  
  
The old man’s smile widens, fond and a little more genuine, says, “Good evening, Master Jay.” And, “Master Timothy. Master Richard.”  
  
“Have you heard from Bruce?”  
  
“I believe he shall return in the next half hour or so,” Alfred tells them, primly, but his smile stays. “He claims to be uninjured, but that, as ever, remains to be seen.”  
  
And Dick asks tiredly, “Is Damian asleep?”  
  
“Perhaps not asleep,” Alfred says, allows, “But he was certainly in his room when last I checked.”   
  
By some form of unspoken agreement (perhaps the way Tim keeps rubbing his eyes and falling back against the Duc, or how Jason is beginning to shed his outer layers, or Dick’s longing glances), they all start to head towards the block of showers, a tired shuffle of feet and aching muscles.   
  
The butler says, “If I may, gentlemen… how was it?”  
  
And Dick says, “ _Painful_ ,” at the same time as Tim murmurs “Exhausting,” and Jason says, mournful, “They murdered my bike, Alfred.”  
  
“I’ll help you fix it?” Tim offers, quietly, seems surprised he opened his mouth. “I mean– I only got a quick look, but with a couple weeks… repairs… you know, we can probably… make it run good as new.”  
  
And Jason looks at him with such shock, such open suspicion and doubt, that Dick cackles, says, “You can’t seriously hate all things Bat that much? I mean, be pissed at Bruce, sure, but you can’t deny he has excellent facilities.” A sweeping gesture, a waggle of eyebrows.  
  
Jay opens his mouth, probably to snap–  
  
“I’m sorry to hear about your bike, Master Jason,” Alfred cuts in smoothly. “And about your last two days, sirs. It seems to me that showers and hot drinks are in order.” Before they can argue (they’re contradictory like that), he adds, “I will be waiting up for Master Bruce anyhow. I shall go and fetch you all some clean clothes.”   
  
The old man turns on his heel and calls, “And Master Jay, you are, of course, staying here tonight.”  
  
“Alfred–”  
  
“No arguments!” the man says, doesn’t break stride.  
  
Jason is appropriately cowed.  
  
And they each shut themselves into a stall, start blasting hot water. Suits getting thrown haphazardly over stall doors and on the tile.  
  
Dick groans appreciatively at the warm pressure on his aching, exhausting muscles, sags tiredly against the wall.   
  
Jason yells, from the adjacent stall, “You better not be doing what I think you’re doing!”  
  
Dick snorts, accidentally inhaling some of the hot spray, says, “A bit of maturity, please, Jason!”  
  
There is a faint mumble from Tim’s stall, barely audible. It sounds suspiciously like “I hate you all, oh my god.”  
  
Dick grins, sticking his head under the spray.  
  
–  
  
Dick had immediately shotgunned the gurney in the med-bay, collapsed onto it. Clad in clean sweats, hair still dripping wet. A towel loosely clutched in one hand trailing on the Cave floor.  
  
And Jason, bitching and whining, sagged into the chair beside the gurney, cursing out his older brother. Gradually falling limp, head lolling to one side.   
  
They had decided to wait up; for Bruce, some form of solidarity, or to keep Alfred company was unclear, but it was that sort of grey area between sleep and wakefulness, and, anyway, none of them could be muster up the energy to head upstairs.   
  
“Was good work tonight,” Dick mumbles, absently. Eyes closed. “And… y'know. Yest'rday.”  
  
And Jason reaches out and swats him, says, “Shh” and his head lolls further.   
  
Tim’s curled sleepily in one of the computer chairs, clutching onto his mug like a lifeline. Eyes dark and surprisingly focused. But his eyelids are drooping.  
  
  
None of them even stir when the Batmobile returns, when Batman moves tiredly across the Cave floor. He yanks back his cowl, surveying his eldest sons– Tim half-falling out of a chair, what looks like tea spilled at his feet, Jason snoring loudly and barely sitting upright, arms folded across his chest, and Dick sprawled, face-first, on a cot.   
  
And all Bruce can say is, “I am  _not_  carrying them upstairs.”  
  
 **-END-**

**Author's Note:**

> Also on [tumblr.](http://incogneat-oh.tumblr.com/post/26286235448/one-of-those-nights-drabble)


End file.
